She went to bed later than usual. Not because she had work, but because her mind wouldn't slow down. The file was closed, the email had been sent, and she had even planned the next day. Still, something inside her kept moving.
Not chaotic. Not clear either. Somewhere between exhaustion and a question.
She stared at the ceiling. For once, she didn't tell herself to push harder. She just thought: Why does moving forward make it harder to stay calm?
It wasn't a simple question.
She closed her eyes, and then quietly, another thought came. Maybe I should talk to someone. Not out of weakness. Out of attention.
***
She woke up before her alarm. Her body felt heavy, but her mind was already awake. She reached for her phone, not to check emails, but to search.
A few words. Therapist. Online. Same language.
Several results appeared. One of them made her pause. A simple photo. A soft smile. Nothing exaggerated.
Short description: Analytical approach (Jungian).
She opened the profile. The text was brief. No promises, no motivational tone. Just a few lines about patterns and listening inward.
She took a breath. Her finger hovered for a second, then she sent a message.
Hello. I'd like to book a session.
***
The reply came quickly.
Hello. I'd be happy to help. What time works for you?
The tone was calm. Warm, but grounded. Lia chose that same evening.
After sending the time, something shifted inside her. Not relief. Not excitement. Just the sense that she had taken a step.
***
At the daycare, the day began as usual. Noise, movement, the familiar rhythm of children. But something was different.
She knew that later, she would speak. That alone softened something inside her.
Emma ran toward her.
"Miss Lia!"
Lia bent down. "What is it?"
Emma studied her face. "You look different again."
Lia smiled. "Again?"
Emma nodded. "Yesterday quiet… today thinking."
Lia laughed softly. "Maybe I am thinking."
Emma shook her head. "You go somewhere when you think."
"Where do I go?" Lia asked.
Emma pointed slightly ahead. "Not here."
That sentence stayed with her.
***
Throughout the day, her thoughts drifted back to work. Deadlines. That line in the email. Faster.
Each time, she brought herself back. Not forcefully. Just a quiet: Not now.
Before, every thought would pull her away. Now, she was starting to choose.
At one point, a child started crying without a clear reason. Before, Lia would have rushed to fix it. This time, she didn't.
She sat beside the child and said softly, "I'm here."
Nothing else.
After a few minutes, the child calmed down.
Not everything needs to be solved quickly. Some things just need presence.
***
At midday, when the children were asleep, she sat alone. She picked up her phone but didn't open the email. She simply looked at the screen.
Another small shift.
She was deciding when to face pressure, instead of carrying it all the time.
***
In the evening, a few minutes before the call, she sat on her bed. No preparation. No rehearsed sentences. She didn't want to perform. She just wanted to be real.
The call began.
"Hello."
"Hello."
A brief silence.
Then the voice asked, "Where would you like to begin?"
Lia paused, then said, "I think I'm moving ahead of myself."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm progressing… but part of me feels left behind."
"Which part?"
She thought for a moment. "The part that's calm."
A short silence followed.
"Do you think that part has always been there, or are you just noticing it now?"
"It's always been there," Lia said quietly. "I just never stopped long enough to see it."
"And now?"
"Now I'm afraid of losing it."
"What makes you think you might lose it?"
"The speed," she answered. "Everything is getting faster."
"When things speed up, what part of you falls behind?"
"My patience," she said. Then added, "My attention."
"To what?"
"To people. To myself."
There was a pause.
"Maybe it's not just about speed," the therapist said. "Maybe it's about your relationship with it."
Lia didn't answer, but the sentence stayed.
"Do you think it's possible to move fast and still be present?"
"I don't know."
"We can explore that."
***
The session wasn't long, but it stayed with her. No advice. No clear answers. Just questions. And each one shifted something.
At the end, the therapist said, "For this week, try one thing."
"What?"
"When you're doing something, ask yourself: Where am I right now?"
Lia smiled slightly. Simple, but precise.
***
After the call ended, she sat still for a moment. Nothing was solved, but everything felt clearer.
She went to her desk, opened her laptop, and brought up the file. Before starting, she paused.
Where am I?
The answer was simple.
Here.
She started working. The sentences came. Not faster, but steadier.
A few minutes later, her mind drifted toward the email. She stopped.
Where am I?
And she came back.
Less scattered. More present.
***
Hours passed. A section improved. Not perfect, but alive.
She exhaled.
For the first time, she didn't feel like she was just running.
She felt like she was moving.
***
That night, she lay in bed. Tired, but lighter. Not because everything was fixed, but because she had stayed with herself.
And that—
was light.